Herma stood in the crowded square outside the Palazzo Vecchio, the hum of anticipation thick in the Florentine air. The sun bore down on the throngs of people gathered to witness history, its golden light casting long shadows against the stone facades. Today was the day they would finally see him—David—Michelangelo's masterpiece, the statue that had been whispered about in every corner of the city.
She shifted on her feet, craning her neck to catch a glimpse of the towering block of fabric-covered marble on the platform ahead. The unveiling was moments away. A murmur of excitement rippled through the crowd, punctuated by bursts of laughter and hurried speculation.
Herma clenched her hands into fists at her sides, her heart hammering in her chest. She had waited for this day with a longing she didn't fully understand. She was not an artist, not a noblewoman with influence—just a girl who had arrived in Florence months ago with nothing but curiosity and an aching desire to see something great.
The square buzzed with voices debating what lay beneath the cloth. "A colossus," one man beside her whispered. "Surely unlike anything we have ever seen."
"I heard Michelangelo has captured the very breath of life itself," another added. "They say even the veins in his hands pulse as though blood runs beneath the marble."
Herma exhaled slowly, gripping the edges of her shawl. She had seen glimpses of it—just stolen peeks through the workshop's doors when the sculptor's assistants moved in and out. She had caught the curve of a shoulder, the shadow of a hand, but never the full figure. Not yet.
The doors of the Palazzo Vecchio opened, and a hush swept over the crowd as city officials stepped forward, their robes rustling in the warm breeze. The chief magistrate lifted his hand for silence.
Herma barely heard his words. Something deep inside her was pulling her forward, a hunger to see what Michelangelo had created. She had followed his work, listened to the murmurs of apprentices in the marketplace, watched the sculptor himself on rare occasions—his broad frame dusted with marble, his face always locked in a trance of concentration.
Now, after years of toil, his David was about to be revealed to the world.
The chief magistrate's speech concluded, and at last, the assistants moved forward, gripping the heavy fabric. They gave one sharp tug, and the covering slid away.
A collective gasp rose into the Florentine sky.
Herma's breath caught in her throat.
There he was—David.
Towering over the square, impossibly perfect. Every curve of muscle, every sinew, every delicate detail of his face carved with divine precision. His stance was relaxed yet tense, as though caught in the moment before a great act of defiance. His gaze—sharp, determined—cut through the air, meeting the world with a quiet challenge.
Herma felt the world tilt slightly, her pulse hammering in her ears. She had imagined this moment, dreamed of it, but nothing could have prepared her for the sheer presence of the sculpture. He was beautiful beyond words, alive in a way stone should never be.
The crowd erupted into shouts of admiration, of disbelief, of fervent praise. "Magnifico!" someone cried. Another man fell to his knees, whispering a prayer.
Herma stood motionless, her eyes locked onto David's face. There was something there, something beyond the skill of Michelangelo's hand. A soul trapped in marble, an unspoken story etched into every shadow and curve.
But then, as the cheers surged, another sound reached her ears.
Murmurs of dissent.
"The nudity… it is indecent!" an older man spat. "He stands naked before the city!"
"Too exposed," another voice hissed. "No modesty, no decorum!"
Herma turned to see a cluster of robed officials whispering, their faces dark with disapproval. The Church, she realized. There had been rumors of their unease with the sculpture, though nothing had been said outright. Now, seeing David standing proud in the heart of Florence, their discomfort had turned to anger.
One of them, a priest in crimson robes, stepped forward and addressed the crowd. "This… thing does not honor God! It offends the eyes, parading before us in a form unworthy of a sacred city. It must be covered!"
Gasps rippled through the square. A few men nodded in agreement, while others grumbled their outrage.
Herma's stomach clenched. No. You cannot hide him.
She did not know where the courage came from, but before she could think, she had stepped forward, pushing past the murmuring onlookers. "He is perfect as he is," she said, her voice stronger than she felt. "You cannot cover the truth."
The priest turned, narrowing his eyes at her. "And who are you to speak on such matters?"
Herma swallowed, lifting her chin. "A witness."
The priest scoffed, but others were listening. A merchant nearby nodded in agreement. "The girl is right. This is not Michelangelo's shame—it is his triumph!"
Another voice rang out: "To cover him would be to cover Florence itself!"
The crowd erupted again, but this time, it was not just admiration—it was defiance. The people of Florence would not let their David be hidden.
The priest clenched his jaw, but he knew. He was outnumbered.
Herma felt a surge of relief. David would remain as Michelangelo had envisioned—bold, unashamed, eternal.
As the crowd swirled around her, she turned back to the statue, taking in every detail once more. The defiant stare, the slingshot at his side, the tension in his muscles.
He was not just a sculpture. He was a statement.
And as long as Florence stood, David would stand, too.